Monday, January 7, 2013

SYCAMORE AND SKY


Today has already been a busy one. I got up long before dawn cracked. Showered, shaved, dressed. Fixed coffee, tea, oatmeal, and scrambled eggs for Myladylove and I. Took Moon-the-Dog out for a while. Ran an errand to a business in nearby village. Then drove twenty-some miles across town to a dental appointent where I spent 2-1/2 hours in the chair having an old filling on a wisdom tooth repaired.

Once back on this side of the city, I took the long way home—through a bit of rural landscape north of here which I always enjoy checking out. Then I fixed lunch…at 3:00.p.m.

There wasn't much stirring out in the country, even though today has been bright with sun and the temperature rose to a degree or two above freezing. The ground is still thickly covered with snow—now wet snow—and other than a few birds and foraging squirrels, everyone else seems to be staying in. 

I saw a flock of bluebirds flitting along the edge of a meadow up the road, but couldn't get close enough for a photo. However, I did manage a very mediocre shot of a redtail hawk who came sailing out from the timber and across the same meadow a moment later, possibly on the trail of those bluebirds. But my favorite image of the dozen or so I made is the one above—special only because I like the dynamics of the white-barked sycamores against that blue, blue sky. Dazzling, huh?         

8 comments:

George said...

Here's a little synchronicity, Grizz. Within a matter of five minutes, I saw your lovely header photo and also stumbled upon a short William Faulkner poem, titled "A Poplar." Though we are speaking here of a sycamore in winter, I think Faulkner's words could be applied to your image.

Why do you shiver there
Between the white river and the road?
You are not cold,
With the sun light dreaming about you;
And yet you lift your pliant supplicating arms as though
To draw clouds from the sky to hide your slenderness.

You are a young girl
Trembling in the throes of ecstatic modesty,
A white objective girl
Whose clothing has been forcibly taken away from her.

giggles said...

Yes. Dazzling, indeed.

Grizz………… said...

George…

That is an absolutely wonderful, and in spite of season and species, still a great poem to pair with the image of sycamores against the sky. [Although now I wish I'd have taken the time to try and make a better photo.] Too, while I've read much of Faulkner's work, I don't recall ever having read it before, either. I'm delighted by your "find." Thank you!

Gail said...

HEY GRIZZ - no comment about your gorgeous winter sky photos as a back drop to those naked white sycamores can come close to the beauty of the poem above so let it suffice to say that the photo and poem are glorious.
Love Gail
peace.....

Grizz………… said...

Giggles…

Yup, that's what I thought…stunning, breathtaking, DAZZLING!

Grizz………… said...

Gail…

I agree—George's poem find says it perfectly. As you can see by the pix. Just lovely.

The Weaver of Grass said...

I love that white barked sycamore Grizz - we don't get them here. And what would I give to see a flock of bluebirds!

Grizz………… said...

Weaver…

I think the closest species you'd have would be the plane tree (Platanus orientalis.) Our sycamore (Platanus occidentalis) is a lovely tree, long-lived, and can grow to be huge. They are practically a signpost species for our waterways, typically growing thickly along both banks. In winter especially, you can drive a country road and watch the twists and turns of a stream a mile away by tracking the gleaming double line of white-barked sycamores. In large and ancient specimens, the bottoms of the trunks are often hollow. In pioneer times, a big sycamore or two could act as a temporary barn for sheltering livestock, easily accommodating a milk cow and a mule or draft horse or two. This meant that first year the family could put their efforts to clearing land and building their own log cabin. Some of those enormous old sycamores had hollows large enough to hold a half-dozen mounted riders and a dozen more men standing. And a good number of those old giants measured well over 50 feet in circumference; the current world record, located in Ohio—which has always been and still is, prime sycamore habitat and the heart of sycamore country—is about 49 feet in circumference.